Guess dying makes you bolder—makes you a bigger fool than you already were. Who blames you? The thought scratches at the back of your mind, unwelcome as the rasp of Johnny’s voice cutting through the smoky haze. His projection flickers nearby, barking something half-lost in the chaos. You don’t catch it—don’t want to. Smoke stings your eyes, your stomach churns, and you lurch toward the nearest wall, retching. A neon glitch on a busted sign flashes in the corner of your vision. Another picture fragment from the night—bloodied knuckles, Maelstrom gang colors, a pistol half-drawn, stairs spiraling down.

And now? Now, there’s the familiar buzz of Vik’s clinic. The last refuge.

You stagger toward the grid gate, nearly falling into it as it rattles under your weight. The harsh metal clang echoes in the alley, but it’s drowned out by the hum of machinery inside. Vik glances up from his tools, his expression that perfect mix of resignation and mild exasperation. You manage a grin, forced and brittle as the cracked pavement beneath your boots. “Eh, could be worse,” you rasp, but even you don’t believe it. He doesn’t either. Vik leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and watches as you step closer. You shadowbox half-heartedly, a lazy mimic of your younger, cockier self. Maybe it’s a nod to old times. Maybe it’s just to show him you’re not that drunk. Mission failed. He’s not buying it.

“You’re lucky you don’t fall on your ass every time you swing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Sit down before you knock something over." You drop heavily into the chair, muscles groaning in protest, and stare at the ceiling.

“Rough night?” he asks. The kind of tone he reserves for the broken, the battered, and the barely-holding-on. Nights like this, the rough edges of Night City soften just enough to make you feel it. And damn it, you miss Jackie. You miss something—someone—familiar.

You glance at Vik, his calm presence like a rock against the storm of your thoughts. “Just...needed somewhere to go,” you mutter.